In the last few days, I've heard New York City described as a tale of
two cities: one city of people who were drastically impacted by
Hurricane Sandy, and another of those who were merely inconvenienced by
it.
I am fortunate: I live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, which was
minimally affected. Our kids were out of school for several days but we
never lost power and our apartment suffered no damage. We also own a
car, which we filled with gas the night of the storm, "just in case."
So when we received several emails announcing an effort to collect
and deliver supplies to some hard hit neighborhoods, we were prepared to
help.
By the time I arrived at the Jewish Community Center in Manhattan,
its lobby was piled high with clothing, food, toys, toiletries,
blankets, flashlights, and other necessities, all packed in black
garbage bags. There were people to sort, people to pack cars, and a
leader who was sending people to designated distribution spots in the
hardest hit areas.
They had already sent a hundred cars filled with supplies and by the end of the day, they sent over a hundred more.
Isabelle and Sophia, my two oldest children, joined me to take part
in the distribution effort. It took volunteers about 60 seconds to fill
our minivan and send us on our way to Staten Island.
Then I got a call from a friend who told me not to go to Staten
Island. The distribution centers were full, he said. Go to Far Rockaway
instead.
Several hours of traffic later, when we got to Far Rockaway, the
distribution center was already maxed out. So we went to a church we
heard was acting as a distribution center. Again, we were turned away —
they had as many supplies as they could handle. We found a third, bigger
distribution center but were turned away again.
As we slowly drove through Far Rockaway looking for distribution
centers, we witnessed devastation of a kind I have never seen. Entire
blocks of houses destroyed by fire, with only the front steps standing,
leading to charred rubble. Sand and debris — including entire boats —
strewn on the streets, left by receding waters. And mounds of discarded
wood, furniture, toys, even walls piled high at the curbs for the
sanitation department to pick up.
I simply could not believe that the people in these neighborhoods had
all the supplies they needed. And yet, here we were, a car filled with
supplies but without a distribution center to give them to.
That's when I realized the problem: All this coordination was
invaluable — to a point. It got our car to the right place, filled with
the right things. But now? The coordination was getting in the way.
I can't quite explain the enormity of this mind shift except to say
that with this realization I shifted from an employee to an
entrepreneur. I stopped doing what I was told to do and started doing
what I saw needed to be done.
So we drove down a random street where we found a number of people clearing debris from their houses.
That's where we met Mike and Kelly. Their just re-finished basement
had flooded to the ceiling like a pool, the water level rose so high it
completely submerged and totaled their two cars and, after three asthma
attacks from all the dust, they finally sent their son to stay with his
grandmother in Westchester.
Yes, they told us, we could really use your supplies. And so could
others on this street. So we all worked together to unload our car onto
Mike's porch where he said he would distribute things to his neighbors.
Mike and Kelly described the night Sandy came, the loud bang when the
water broke through the basement wall. Kelly took the time to teach my
kids about the ocean and the bay — how the water came from both sides
and flooded everything. She talked about how they were sharing food with
neighbors and trying to help each other in the clean up. And she gave
my kids way more leftover Halloween candy than I approved of.
As I heard about Mike and Kelly's devastation as well as their courage, I felt the blessing of the organizational breakdown.
Without coordination, I never would have gotten to Far Rockaway with a
minivan full of necessities. But had it all worked smoothly, my kids
and I would have given it all to a nameless bureaucracy and never would
have met Mike and Kelly and heard their story. And they would never have
met us or had the opportunity to tell us their story.
New York City is not two cities; it's eight million cities. This
hurricane affected each one of us in a particular way. And to reach
across the darkened neighborhoods, debris-strewn streets, and
waterlogged houses to hear those stories is a critical — and inspiring —
step in this recovery.
Yes, food and clothing and blankets are necessary for survival. But
so are the conversations, connections, and sense of community that come
from real people sharing with other real people.
Those are things we're losing as we distance ourselves from each
other in large organizations and efficient modes of communication — as
our digital lives overwhelm our in-person ones. We don't have to lose
them — after all, organizations are made of people. But the more we act
like employees, operating to get the job done as efficiently as
possible, the less human we become.
Sharing supplies and stories with neighbors is inefficient. Maybe
Mike and Kelly will end up with things on their porch that they can't
use and can't give away. Maybe they weren't the people who needed the
supplies the most.
But our trip to Far Rockaway helped me see the usefulness of that
inefficiency. How much better is it for a neighborhood when one neighbor
tells the others to come to his front porch and take what they need
instead of signing up for necessities through a distribution center?
At first, I'm embarrassed to admit, I'd had the thought: What if they
keep it all for themselves? That's precisely the mistrust that leads
to — and emerges from — impersonal bureaucracies.
The truth is, maybe they will keep it all for themselves.
But I doubt it. Mike and Kelly are good people; that was clear from
way they treated me and my kids. As soon as we arrived at their house,
Kelly offered us some of their limited supply of bottled water. They'll
take what they need and share what they can.
As we drove back home late that night, we felt great. Not just
because we helped out a neighborhood that could use the help. And not
just because we tapped into our entrepreneurial initiative, which we
were proud of. But because we met Mike and Kelly and connected with
them.
That, it turns out, is the upside of inefficiency.
http://blogs.hbr.org/bregman/2012/11/the-upside-of-inefficiency.html